


Retirement

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale potter around on a sunny evening. This is literally just them being fluffy.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Retirement

They get back late in the afternoon, sun-soaked after sitting out for hours at a pub by the river so picturesque it was hard to leave, way out in the countryside. Crowley drove them, all the windows down, nothing at all to do except enjoy each other’s company. Aziraphale picked the pub and Crowley had been unimpressed and vaguely confused - unfashionable, a big screen showing a Six Nations rugby rerun, sticky floor and almost-broken, wobbly furniture. Then Aziraphale had bustled them out into the garden - long and sprawling and beautiful and wild, so still and quiet, just the bees and the chat and the clink of glasses and the river. They’d waited for ages with their drinks, and then the food had finally come and it had made even more sense.

The food was really, really good. Even the veggie burger Crowley opted for was good. Aziraphale had looked incredibly smug about it. So they’d stayed out there, sat eventually in the grass right by the water, Aziraphale chucking seed at curious water-fowl. Mostly ducks. A morehen, two coots, a whole bunch of geese who hissed at them. Crowley hissed back. A dog came to investigate and adopted them for the while, Aziraphale falling in love with it. Crowley of course hadn’t minded a bit when it’s owners reclaimed it. He hadn’t at all done a google search for dog adoption in the UK. 

And now they’re home, the cool, dimmer flat welcome after the long hot sun. Aziraphale’s groggy with the sensory input, hand around Crowley’s arm, his other hand happy in the air. Crowley leads him to the livingroom and shuts the curtains, turning to watch Aziraphale sinking into the sofa, and then going all the way to the floor, on his knees. He turns and lies on his front, arm tucked under his head, eyes fluttering closed. Crowley’s seen him do this before, his weird impression of a rug. Seems to soothe something. He gets the curtains properly shut and sits cross legged beside Aziraphale, nicking Aziraphale’s phone so he can play the fish game he doesn’t want to pay ninety-nine pee for on his own phone. When Aziraphale shivers he leans forward, lying across Aziraphale’s back, weighing him down. 

It’s nice, folded up together on the floor, quiet. Aziraphale hums sometimes, fingers finding Crowley’s leg and resting there, feeling over the jeans fabric. He’s awake. Crowley feeds his fish and saves them from an alien. He squints at the screen, trying to work what sort of fish these are. He’s pretty sure they’re made up, but it’s Aziraphale who watches animal documentaries. Though, not so much since he took issue with David Attenborough for smelling faintly of eugenics. He’d made Crowley swear on a bible that he had nothing to do with that. And then been Loudly Disappointed at D.A every time he came on screen. A time or two when he was being interview live or on a show or doing a speech Crowley would swear he felt it - he faltered while speaking a time or two. Noisy angel. 

Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s skin where his shirt’s ridden up. Plants, now. Plants Crowley can name. He’s gotten back into Gardeners’ Question Time since what he’s decided to call their retirement. It’s a bit annoying, actually, living with Aziraphale, because he’ll do all the things suggested on the radio, and he’ll talk to his plants like they said before, and he’ll get them all nice and shiny and perfect, and then Aziraphale will breeze through and everything will want to please Aziraphale and Aziraphale likes things to just grow, wild and easy and joyful. All of Crowley’s plants just bloom haphazardly, now and then. One even grew a flower. He doesn’t have any flowering plants inside. Only in the garden out the back. It’s ridiculous. 

“Pizza,” Aziraphale breathes. 

“Huh? You dreaming about those flying pizzas again?” Crowley mumbles back. 

“For dinner,” Aziraphale says, trying to get off the floor. Crowley’s still on top of him so he can’t. Then he huffs and pushes up and Crowley giggles. Aziraphale’s deceptively strong - Crowley goes sprawling across the carpet as Aziraphale gets easily to his feet before groaning and grimacing. “I’m too old to sleep on the floor.”

Crowley gazes up at him, happy, still dozy from the sunny afternoon, pleased with the way Aziraphale looks. All rumpled and creased and soft and beautiful and lovely and familiar and such wonderful eyes and-

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, trying to sound scolding but just sounding pleased. 

“I like pizza,” Crowley says. 

“The flying pizza is a good dream,” Aziraphale says, reaching out a hand to help Crowley up. Who really does creak a bit, after folding himself into a pretzel like that. Aziraphale tuts. 

“I’m fine. It was comfy,” Crowley says, stretching all the way through his body and yowling just for the joy of it. 

“I want pepper on the pizza.”

“You don’t like peppers on pizza. Or at all if they're cooked,” Crowley reminds. 

They bicker idly about it as they wander through the house, Aziraphale’s arm threaded through Crowley’s, taking a tour of the plants and the new… Aziraphale calls it the spare room but it’s more like a library, the kitchen. Crowley remembers Aziraphale teaching him to gavotte in this tiny cramped space and tugs him into a slow dance in retaliation. It’s good, Aziraphale in his arms, the evening sun cooler now, good to bask in. He realises Aziraphale’s ordering pizza while they dance. 

“Ugh,” Crowley says, disentangling himself and going to sulk by the window. Aziraphale takes absolutely no notice, so Crowley drapes himself sadly there, sighs loudly, gazes soulfully. 

“I was only looking for some music,” Aziraphale chides, much closer than Crowley thought he was. 

It’s something ridiculous from the 1940s, slow enough to sway to. Crowley gives in, letting Aziraphale wrap around him, kiss his shoulder, letting himself be turned and drawn into a kiss, Aziraphale’s arm around his neck as they dance again. It is better with music, Crowley concedes, if only in his head. 

“Wait a minute,” Crowley says, remembering the pizza. Then he pauses. Rethinks. 

He waves it away and kisses Aziraphale so he forgets it, carries on dancing. Hums.

“You did order the pizza, right?” Crowley murmurs, as if it's incidental.

“No,” Aziraphale says. Innocently. 

“I’d better do that, then, I’ll just…” Crowley trails off, Aziraphale’s lips against his shoulder again, his neck, distracting him. 

Oh well. Who needs to win, afterall? Crowley sighs happily and holds on tighter.


End file.
